I smirk. “He seems really invested in this case,” I say. “He hates billionaires.”
“Who doesn’t?” Elodie says. “Look at what they’re all doing.”
I nod. “But we have to stay objective. At least professionally. If we let our own feelings get into the mix, we’ll make mistakes.”
Elodie clenches her jaw, but she nods. “Let’s fry this bastard,” she says. “And then get manicures.”
“Bloodred nail polish,” I add, making her laugh.
At Elodie’s insistence, we stop somewhere for a latelunch. By the time we’re done, it’s nearly time to pick the girls up from school. She’s regaled me with her own plan to do some deeper research. Pull security camera footage from neighboring buildings, do a deeper dive into Bertram’s files. I nod along, admiring her tenacity. But what I don’t say is that she’s being far too cautious, that a great reward requires greater risks.
I’ve decided here is where we’ll diverge. While Elodie investigates this digitally, I’ll take a more direct approach. Maybe she’ll stumble upon something we missed the first time, but, just maybe, this will require more of a risk than Elodie is willing to take.
After I drop Elodie back at her car, I call the front desk at Bertram’s apartment building. I know the odds of getting his phone number are exactly zero, but all I need to do is get close to him. I recognize the voice of the man at the front desk when he answers—the one who helped Elodie and me get through to Bertram.
“Hi,” I say, disguising my voice. Years of reading bedtime stories to my daughter have made me a pro at this. I can sound like anything from an enchanted princess to an evil sea witch. A harried delivery courier is somewhere between those two things. “I’m calling from UPS. A resident of your building has a delivery scheduled, and it’s going to require a forklift. Does your building have a service elevator?”
“Oh my goodness,” the man says. “How big is the delivery, exactly?”
I pretend to be checking a document. “It says the dimensions are ten by twelve feet, six feet deep. Should be arriving tomorrow. Can I confirm someone will be there to sign for it, and that there’s a freight elevator?”
“We do have an industrial elevator, but it’s usually for furniture deliveries and residents who are just moving in. Who is it for?”
“Bertram Casimir.” I pretend to have difficulty pronouncing the name. “The penthouse. Arrival will be around four p.m.”
This will give me enough time to pick Collette up from school, check in with Waylen, jet out of the house to run my little errand, and be back before dinner.
“Someone will be there,” the man assures me, and we hang up.
A recluse like Bertram relies on things being safe and predictable. He is surrounded at all times by cameras and security guards. So if he’s expecting a package and doesn’t know what it is, that will already rattle him. And when I happen to show up instead, under the guise of wanting to ask about his charitable donations, he’s going to be downright confused. He’s going to get that nettling, impossible-to-prove sense that something is amiss.
That’s what I want. To keep him off his game so that he makes a mistake.
I have a new text from Mr. X asking how today went. I type back that we may have a few leads, but I leave out my latest plan, just in case he tells Elodie about it and she tries to stop me. Working with a partner always has its flaws, and while I’ve come to admit that Elodie is brilliant, her flaw is that she’s too cautious. I can’t blame her for that—she’s coming from small-time white-collar investment fraud. I won’t involve her in the dirty work. I’ll handle it myself.
Eight
When I wake up at six o’clock and Waylen’s side of the bed is empty, somehow, I know. We’re overdue for a Talk with a capitalT.
My husband is a man who thrives on routine. Working from home leaves too much room for potential disarray, so he holds himself to the rigor of a true office job. Awake at seven, out of the shower by seven thirty, coffee and breakfast done and dishes washed before eight. It’s enough to stress me out, but Collette is just like him. I see it the older she gets, how panicked she is if I’m five minutes late to pick her up from school, begging me to drive her back to a friend’s house if she accidentally forgot to pick up a book she loaned them.
If either of them does something out of character, I know it’s because something more pressing is occupying their mind.
I don’t get up right away, though. I lie staring at theceiling, listening to the sound of the Keurig pouring coffee into Waylen’s mug, reluctant to enter into the same argument again. To distract myself, I wonder about how I’ll approach Bertram when I head to his apartment to talk about his charity donations. He gives millions per year to various STEM programs for youth, domestic violence shelters, and environmental efforts to combat climate change. As far as I can tell, he’s never made his donations public. I had to do a lot of digging to find the records online. It’ll be tricky to walk the line between being a serious reporter and being a fledgling buffoon who can’t tie her own shoes without falling over.
I find myself wondering if he’s as orderly as my husband. Somewhere across the miles between us, while the shoreline is slowly waking, is he already up and doing some bougie version of hot yoga? Is there a masseuse laying burning stones on his spine to cleanse his spirit? Is he blending a lean green juice with wheatgrass and some miracle seed he’s imported from a small village in Senegal?
Eventually, I drag myself up and make my way downstairs, still in my pajamas.
Waylen, as expected, is sitting at the counter with his coffee. He’s wearing the same fitted T-shirt and boxers he wore to bed, but it’s only now that I notice the way they fit him, how much broader his shoulders have gotten since he renewed his gym membership.
In more than a decade of marriage, his brown hair has turned prematurely gray, and it suits him. A young silver fox that any of the women I know would be happy to lay claim to. He’s a good man, a doting father, attentive partner. If I had made a list of attributes for the perfecthusband back when I was a little girl—the kind of prince I wanted to sweep me off my feet—he would have ticked all the boxes.
I remind myself of this often, because it’s been many years since I dreamed of a Prince Charming.
Now he gives me a wan smile. “Would you like some tea?”
I would like to skip the formalities, so I shake my head and sit across from him. “What’s on your mind?”
